you can tell them about the Girl You Fucked Last Night

but don’t bother calling me beautiful.

i know you mean kindness but i am nothing like a rose

cast aside your pastel prose; i am far too much light

for your grey-tinted tongue.

do yourself a favour: call me power instead.

tell them how my cunt tastes like triumph

and my sweat smells like victory;

how your fingers set me off and how

playing on my skin was the best battle you’ve ever fought

and i might be the most fun you’ll ever have with explosives.

tell them how something in my mouth tasted like silver:

something about my lips or my teeth, or maybe it was

the velvet in my voice;

but either way, you’ve been wrapping your tongue

around rings and necklaces ever since.

you never thought sourmetal might taste this sweet.

what i’m asking is: when you talk about me

talk about your favourite predator.

about how my bedroom eyes are so piercing

you were frightened i might have claws;

talk about how you wondered how soft the mane of a lion might be

and whether it might smell anything like me.

what i’m asking is: call me back on the first night that you stay up

until three thinking about how my skin

feels exactly the way pussywillow might feel

if you could fill it with gunpowder;

how i have bullets for fingertips and you never thought

artillery would feel quite this soft.

what i’m saying is: i hope you knew when you fucked me

that i have lightning in my veins,

and my blood if you spill it

will set ablaze the very ground under your feet.

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